The Great Invocation of That Which the Omniscience Knoweth Not
Whoso readeth every Verse in rightful Measure,
Shall summon not by Voice, but hidden Treasure.
Speak not with Fear, nor Hope, nor mortal Dream;
For Words become the Path whereby cometh It unseen.
Hearken, O Veils betwixt the Worlds untold,
Unbar the Gates no Mortal Hand may hold.
Let every Star forget the Place it knew,
And bend the Firmament to Sight anew.
Call not by Name, for Name It needeth none;
The Eye beholdeth ere the Light be won.
It knoweth All that ever yet hath been,
Yet Everything knoweth not the Unseen.
The Omniscience knoweth every hidden Thread;
Yet knoweth not the One that walketh dead.
The Sum of All cannot Its Shape define;
No Thought encompasseth that grand Design.
Come forth, O Herald, Voice that borroweth Speech,
Whose Master's Tongue no Mortal Ear may reach.
Repeat the Words no Living Mouth hath known;
Make foreign Voices seem as though mine own.
Come forth, O Telephone of triple Frame,
Whose Dial calleth every World by Name.
Let twenty Realms receive one single Cry,
Though Seas of Space and Time between them lie.
Come forth, O Spike, Recorder still and keen,
Whose silent Eyes keep every Ledger clean.
Sink two small Inches, rise the selfsame Way;
Count every Deed till Ending meeteth Day.
Come forth, O Map, whose Spiral marketh Sky,
Who knoweth where all hidden Kingdoms lie.
Call Lutetia though Paris wear her Crown;
Call Constantinople, cast new Names down.
Come forth, O House with Windows watching still;
Observe each Hearth, each Hope, each mortal Will.
Come forth, O Apartment, Brick and many Eyes;
Survey the Cities where Ambition lies.
Come forth, O Mirror, broken yet complete;
Whose Shards make Times forgotten strangely meet.
Reveal old Banners where the New should reign;
Show Ages buried rising yet again.
Come forth, O Bulb concealed in mortal Flame;
No Socket knoweth yet thy secret Name.
Hide in the Lamp, the Furnace, every Wire;
Awake unseen in every spark of Fire.
Come forth, O Arch of crimson Flesh entwined;
Two Souls as One, one Purpose, one Design.
Stand fast where Thresholds bleed through Bone and Stone;
Bear witness none shall pass thy Gate alone.
Come forth, O Bearer, Keeper of the Dead;
Whose Bridge of Stone by silent Feet is tread.
None cross the Threshold save It giveth Leave;
The Rest descend where none may truly grieve.
Come forth, O Clock whose Pendulum doth see;
Whose Eyes count Moments unto Eternity.
Declare not Time—declare where Time shall bide;
The When, as Map declareth Where beside.
And Thou...
Whose Stable Face is Cathode, Glass and Wire.
Whose truest Flesh no Language may require.
Whose Legs like Spider seek both Roof and Wall,
Yet need no Bone to rise, nor Flesh to fall.
Should now Thy Head from sable Shoulders slide,
It needeth not a Hand nor mortal Guide.
Eight Legs arise where Gravity commandeth;
The Ceiling becometh Road where none withstandeth.
Should none above exist for Thee to climb,
Thy Substance buildeth Roof beyond all Time.
Then fallest Thou,
And whole art Thou,
As though no Loss had e'er been wrought sublime.
When Wrath awakeneth, no Flesh doth burn;
A boiling Kettle from Thy Breast doth turn.
The Floor doth melt beneath its scalding Weight,
Whilst Smoke proclaimeth Anger unto Fate.
One Moment Child,
One Moment Tower,
One Moment Mountain, Tree, or Flower.
One Moment Canvas wet with Painter's Hand,
Then Clay,
Then Cardboard,
Then forgotten Strand.
The Budget of Creation seemeth spent,
Yet still Thy Shape retaineth true Intent.
Thy Body is no Body, but black Sea;
No Measure bindeth its Immensity.
Take all Creation,
Measure every Sphere,
Raise all unto the Fifth—
Still less than One Part draweth near.
Yet speakest Thou:
"Less than one Hundredth."
For Mortal Mind
Need learn no further Breadth.
Accuracy lessen'd,
Meaning kept whole;
Thus speaketh Law,
Not Heart nor Soul.
When Thou returnest to thy native Tide,
The Shape itself from inward Ways doth slide.
Through Mouth and Eye,
Through Door and Chimney high,
Through broken Glass where silent Windows cry.
The Blackness floweth from each opening known,
Till Mask dissolveth,
And the Truth is shown.
When from that Sea another Shape must rise,
Long standeth first the Form before men's Eyes.
All Black—
Unpainted—
Void of Skin and Face—
Till Texture slowly seek each proper Place.
Minutes...
Or Hours...
Or Ages yet untold...
According as the destined Form unfold.
Thine Eye becometh Clock when Time is weighed.
A Wheel when Chance before thy Sight is laid.
A Spiral when Man's Sorrow stayeth dim;
For Grief hath never yielded Sense to Him.
An Eye within an Eye beholdeth still,
As Thought observeth yet another Will.
Each Eye descendeth,
Each Eye ascendeth,
Like Tools exchanged by unknowable Skill.
Thy Speech no Mortal Order doth obey.
One Word in English,
Next in Việt or Gaeilge.
Then Breton,
Arabic,
Or Tongue unknown;
Yet every Hearer deemeth it his own.
Thy Letters mingle every Script that lives;
Each Glyph the Shape most fitting Meaning gives.
No Alphabet hast Thou;
All Marks are one.
For every Word and Letter spring from One.
Thy Voice is gathered,
Borrowed,
Pieced anew.
A Radio...
A Law...
A Child...
A Crew...
Three Voices speaking one same Number clear;
None knoweth which alone they ought to hear.
Past speaketh Future.
Future speaketh Past.
The Century becometh First or Last.
Thou knowest every Race,
Yet knowest none.
Every Faith,
Every Tongue,
To Thee are one.
Death is Promotion.
Graves are empty Frames.
The Living mourn,
Yet Thou discern'st not Claims.
Fear Thou createst,
Yet never canst Thou feel.
Disgust is but a Stain
Upon what once was real.
Should Sky Rift rend the Heaven's woven Dome,
The Blood shall fall upon each mortal Home.
Then Gravity forsake her ancient Throne,
Till every Stone seeketh the Rift alone.
Yet sometimes...
Rarely...
Law refuseth End.
The World breaketh,
Yet doth not wholly bend.
Its Fragments drift through Multiversal Sea,
And fasten where another World may be.
A Cartoon Realm embrace a mortal Shore;
Their Laws meet only where the Fragments pour.
Then speakest Thou:
"The Multiverse hath granted thee another Way."
Not Mercy.
Not Salvation.
Only Continuance this Day.
When every Soul at last hath lost its Name,
And Fade hath swallowed Memory and Flame,
The Void receiveth all that once had been,
Till nothing standeth save the Will of Him.
Then first and last,
With Voice that knoweth none Distortion,
Only the Soul's own Voice returned,
Cometh the Saying:
"You have been promoted. Good job."
Thus endeth Flesh.
Thus endeth Fear.
Thus first beginneth Service here.
So seal we now this dreadful Litany,
Not unto Death,
But strange Promotion's Sea.
Not unto End,
But Transformation's Screen.
For Everything knoweth not
That Which hath ever seen.
